


A Matter of Trust

by ossapher



Category: American Revolution RPF
Genre: First Kiss, Lams - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-18
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-04-27 00:26:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5026597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ossapher/pseuds/ossapher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written in response to a tumblr request for a drabble on the line, "You're the only one I trust to do this."</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Matter of Trust

**Author's Note:**

> OMG PEOPLE elbridge-gerry over at tumblr made a gifset from the dialogue (using Seth Numrich from Turn as John Laurens because, let's face it, history!Laurens and Seth Numrich could be brothers). Go and look at the pretty!  
> http://elbridge-gerry.tumblr.com/post/134497653019/please-laurens-whispered-youre-the-only-one

“I have decided to call out Charles Lee,” Laurens said, cornering Hamilton quite suddenly after supper that day. General Washington and the other officers had already dispersed; a lone servant was picking up the plateware.

“You have done what?”

“I am going to challenge Charles Lee to a duel,” Laurens repeated calmly, “for his continued calumnies surrounding the battle of Monmouth, and for his insubordination and disrespect of General Washington.”

“You never said anything about a duel before.”

“You cannot go talking about duels unless you really mean to fight one. Otherwise it gives you a reputation for being nothing but talk. Now that I know I really mean to challenge Lee, you are the first one I have told.” Laurens kept his voice low, fearful of being overheard in their tight quarters, and had leaned in quite close so that Hamilton might hear him.

“Why me first?” Hamilton asked, eyes fixed on some point over Laurens’ shoulder. He was not taking it at all like Laurens had thought he would—seemed more shocked than pleased. Still, Laurens had little doubt he would come round eventually. After all, he was a man of honor, as Laurens was.

“It is just as well that we come to that now. If you would be so kind as to serve as my second, I would be most grateful for your services in that area.” Seeing that Hamilton was in some sort of distress, he gave his arm a friendly touch.

Hamilton swallowed, freckles standing out vividly on his ashen face. “I thank you for the offer. If you would be so kind as to allow me a moment before I reply.” And, so saying, he brushed off Laurens’ arm and walked briskly from the room.

 

* * *

 

Hamilton stepped out into the December dusk without his coat and was instantly covered in goosebumps, but walked so quickly that he was soon almost warm. Laurens! God, what would he think of him? He had clearly expected an immediate assent; likely thought Hamilton’s failure to give one childish or, worse, womanish.

Doubtless Laurens would be correct on that point: only a dishonorable coward would shrink from a duel. And he was not even asking Hamilton to be in the duel, for God’s sake! All he wanted was a second.

A few men from his old regiment hailed him, and he waved an awkward hello. The perimeter of camp was well over a mile; he could easily walk it on the pretense of checking the sentries, and his legs longed to move.

_Being in the duel myself would be better. Then I wouldn’t have to watch._ An image flashed before his eyes, the same image that had rendered him immobile, unable to so much as think, the moment he had understood his friend’s words. It was Laurens, still upon the earth, chest a red ruin, eyes swarmed by flies.

His gorge rose at the thought, and he was grateful for the distraction of the freezing air on his face. Yes, dueling Lee himself would be infinitely simpler. He did not mind risking his own life; found that the heat and the glow of battle more than made up for the terror most of the time, and after all, in death there was glory. Yet, though he loved that Laurens thought much the same as he did about death, he hated the idea that his friend might one day face the consequences of such a viewpoint; that Laurens might one day be cut down for the sake of honor and glory and country.

Sometimes when he was thinking on a particularly thorny question he liked to play devil’s advocate with himself, and so as he walked on through the twilit bare trees and scraggly undergrowth he muttered under his breath. “Now, Colonel Hamilton, you are being an awful hypocrite here. Can you not see that Laurens values his honor just as much as you do your own? Is it not absurd to expect him to shy from an honorable encounter once insulted, when you would not do so?”

“No. I am not being a hypocrite because the cases are not the same. Laurens is from an old and respected family with an excellent upbringing and education. Everyone already knows what an honorable man he is, ergo he should not have to prove it again, ergo he should not bother challenging that weasel Charles Lee. Whereas I must continually prove myself, as I have none of what he has.”

“Ah, but that is the crux of the matter, is it not?” Hamilton replied, in the voice of the devil’s advocate. “For his reputation is of sterling character, and it would be all the more shame to allow Lee to tarnish it even a little. And as far as the grievousness of the situation, he has offered us both much the same insult by challenging Washington’s account of the battle. Therefore, our situations as far as damaged reputations go are probably about equal, seeing as we both must behave with particular care, he because he has too many advantages, and I because I have too few.”

Hamilton frowned and nearly halted; the devil had carried the point. But that did not change the sick feeling in his stomach every time he thought of Laurens exposing himself to danger.

Some residual awareness of his surroundings made him look up; he was nearing the first sentry posting. He tabled the argument for the sake of not looking insane and saluted the men as he passed. When he was far enough away again as to be out of earshot, his muttering resumed.  

“It is clear then that he has every right to issue a challenge, and many good reasons as well. I should be proud to serve as his second in this matter. So why do I hesitate?”

_Because you love him too much_ , the devil instantly supplied, and this time Hamilton did halt, in the middle of the woods, with darkness falling around him.

“I _what_?” There was no misunderstanding of what was meant by the word “love”—the devil, after all, was a mere construct of his own mind, meant for argumentative purposes. Withering shame swept down upon him, so sudden and self-evident that he did not even deny the point; he knew instantly from how much it wounded him, how deep the hurt went, that it must be the truth. He sank down to the ground and curled into a ball, a comfort against the cold and the sick feeling inside. God, what was he going to tell Laurens? _Sorry, John. You see, I can’t serve as your second because I’m afraid I would have to watch you die, and I can’t do that because I’m a clinging sodomite who can’t stand to lose one more—_

“Hamilton? Is that you?”

Think of the devil—but Laurens was no devil.

Hamilton stood, brushing dead leaves off his uniform as he did so. “Yes, it’s me.”

“Lord, it’s dark out here. I know you like scaring the sentries but it’s really too late. We should get back to camp.”

That, at least, answered the question of how Laurens had found him: the sentries at the first post must have pointed him in the right direction. “All right,” he said, as the silhouette of Laurens, black against the deep blue of the sky, came trampling through the underbrush and took his arm.

“I really am sorry,” Laurens said, once they had started back in camp’s general direction. Now that it was almost full dark and they were not racing along as Hamilton had been, their progress was quite slow. “I brought you your coat.”

They paused a moment, and Laurens held the coat as Hamilton threaded his arms into the sleeves. He fumbled at the buttons; he had not realized it, but his fingers had grown numb.

“Here, let me help,” said Laurens, and in the dark managed to do them up so that buttons and buttonholes were mismatched by only one. “There. Warmer?”

“Yes, thank you.” Hamilton straightened the lopsided coat as best he could, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “You said _you_ were sorry?”

“Well, yes,” said Laurens, taking Hamilton’s arm again and resuming their slow walk back to camp. “I am sorry that I dropped the duel on your head like that. I should have considered your…your position.”

“My position,” Hamilton repeated flatly. “What is that supposed to mean?”

There was a pause, all the more uncomfortable because he could not see Laurens’ face. “You’ve never been involved in an affair of honor before, have you?” he said at last. Laurens’ voice was soft, curious rather than accusatory, but Hamilton felt the blood rush to his face all the same. He hated the gentleness in Laurens’ question, the sudden awareness that they were from different worlds, the assumption that he had come from a place without gentlemen, without honor, and therefore without affairs of honor.

“We have had some very infamous duels where I come from, I thank you,” he said coldly.

“Then you know that it is no small thing, to ask a man to be your second. The seconds play a large part in the determination of whether a man’s honor has been satisfied. I cannot leave the task to just any man.”

“I know,” Hamilton said, swallowing thickly. “And… truly, it is an honor to be your choice. But I fear—I fear that I—that I will not—“

“Here now,” Laurens mercifully interrupted, “I really have upset you. It can wait until we’re back in the warm, at least.”

“You needn’t coddle me,” Hamilton snapped. “And in any case, I would rather talk out here.”

“Out here? In the cold and the dark so thick we can’t see each other’s faces?”

“Yes.”Back in camp they might easily be overheard, and Hamilton foresaw an awkward conversation. Perhaps it would be better if Laurens could not read his expression.

“Well… all right, I suppose.” There was a note of stifled bafflement in Laurens’ voice that Hamilton flushed to detect. “Say what you want to say.”

Hamilton paused for a moment to collect his thoughts as Laurens, beside him, shifted closer against the chill. He had no desire to bring his whole friendship with the man crashing down, as a full revelation would surely accomplish; but the esteem in which he held Laurens demanded that the essential character of his speech be truthful.

“You know little of my past, and I would very much prefer to keep it that way. The less that is said of it, the better. I do not tell you what I tell you now in order to earn your pity; I only seek that you should understand me a little better. So I beg you not to press me for details when I say that the vast majority of people who ever cared for me when I was a boy died soon after I met them, and that this has, against the efforts of my reason, left a curious defect in my character, and that is that I am more inclined to worry after the health and well-being of my friends than… than is entirely conventional.”

He stopped, realizing that he had been speaking too quickly, that the words, once prepared, had fountained out of rapid as thought.

Laurens, after a moment, said, “It’s true, you have always been attentiveness itself when I am hurt. But I cannot agree with your use of the word ‘defect.’ It’s not a defect to care.”

“It is a defect to care too much, and about the wrong thing.”

Laurens chuckled and squeezed his arm affectionately. “That is not a bad flaw, as flaws go. It is positively likeable. But truly, I would still have you as my second if I could.”

“I could not discharge the office honorably. My task could involve exposing you to danger, if Lee’s honor or yours is not satisfied by the first shot. I—I don’t believe I could do it.” The vision of Laurens, dead, flashed before his eyes again, and he shuddered.

“Come on, let’s go back to camp. You’re freezing.”

“No. I’m not cold.” Let them stay in the dark. “As I said, I cannot do it.”

“I think you could,” Laurens said softly.

“Why on earth do you think that, after what I have just told you?”

Laurens sighed. “I am not the orator you are, so you will have to be content with what I can manage. I think you can do it because—because you understand me, and you understand how much honor matters to me. You know that I could never—could never live with myself if I thought I had done something to be ashamed of, or, or acted the coward. And… I know that you—that you take that seriously, that you take—when things are entrusted to you, that is, you….put that before whatever else you may—may want. Those things, I mean. Damn it all, I’m not making sense. I mean that when someone trusts you to do something, you do it even if you don’t want to. And so if I trust you, about this or about anything else… I know you’ll live up to that trust, because you won’t let yourself do otherwise. Because you’re honorable, too.”

Throughout this speech Hamilton had struggled to hold back tears, and now he sagged against a whirlwind of conflicted emotion. On one hand, Laurens defeated, wretched, miserable because he was unable to live up to his own standards of conduct; on the other hand, Laurens wounded, Laurens dead…

“Please,” Laurens whispered, “You’re the only one I trust to do this.”

Hamilton screwed his eyes shut, a hot tear rolling down his cheek, a cold mass of dread in his stomach. He swallowed the knot in his throat. “All right. I’ll do it.”

“Thank you,” said Laurens, pulling him into a tight embrace, one hand behind his head. “God, thank you. You—just, thank you.”

“Happy to help,” Hamilton said. Laurens had squashed his face right against his neckcloth, and his voice was somewhat muffled by all the fabric. Still, this way Laurens could not tell that he was practically choking with emotion. Usually having Laurens’ arms wrapped round his shoulders would be a comfort to Hamilton; now, it was only an excruciating reminder of what he stood to lose. He shut his eyes tight again, but the tears came regardless.

“All right,” said Laurens, releasing him and straightening his coat. “Back to camp now?”

“Lead on.” Short utterances were safest.

But Laurens’ silhouette stopped. “What’s this?”

“What’s what?”

“My neckcloth, it’s—Hamilton, are you crying?”

“Gentlemen do not ask other gentlemen if they are crying, Laurens. It is rude.”

“Come here.” A hand snaked out and seized his collar; another, at his waist, pulled him close. Hamilton turned his face at the touch of gentle fingers, seeking in the dark. They ghosted up his jaw, over his cheek, to an eye. “You are,” Laurens said in wonder.

Hamilton was in half a mind to bolt again, but he felt like he had run miles, and in any case despite his distress he was perfectly aware that he would break a leg in a gopher-hole if he tried running through the woods at night. He allowed his forehead to thump against Laurens’ chest. “Caught me,” he said tonelessly.

“I—I’m sorry, I—I didn’t realize you—“

“Were weeping like a freshly-made widow? Yes, John, I admit I tried to conceal that one.”

“I just—I didn’t think you’d be so—so affected—“

“Did you miss the part where everyone I love but you is dead?”

“No, that was clear, I just—I just assumed—assumed…“ Laurens trailed off. “Wait.” The hand on Hamilton’s face lifted up his chin. “Everyone you love… but me?”

Hamilton said nothing, because there it was: all lost, all ruined, all given away, except Laurens had sounded… hopeful?

“I’m sorry,” Laurens whispered. “I’m sorry, I must be insane, I just…” Their foreheads touched. “Please say something. Tell me to stop.”

Hamilton raised one hand cautiously, feeling for Laurens’ face. He could feel the man’s every breath. When he found Laurens’ jaw Laurens sighed with relief, hot against his lips.

“Good,” Laurens said, taking a step away, “for a moment I—“

Hamilton wrapped another arm round the small of his back, pulled him in closer again.

“—I thought I was going to…to…“

“The only one you trust,” Hamilton said. “You said I was the only one you trust.”

“I did say that, didn’t I?”

Hamilton kissed him, light and sweet, there and gone. “You did.”

Laurens laughed. “I did!” He gave the kiss back. “That was me!”

“I was the first one you told about the duel,” Hamilton said, laughing in his turn. “You told me before the _General_ , didn’t you? Didn’t you?” This time he lingered a moment longer on Laurens’ lips. The hand on his chin moved to his neck, gently pressing him forward, and he opened his mouth. Their noses collided; both grinned as they renegotiated positions.

From the distance came the sound of a sentry hailing another sentry. Laurens cursed and they broke apart.

“What?” Hamilton said, “what’s wrong?”

“Nothing—nothing’s wrong—we’ve got to get back to camp. We’ll be missed.”

 

* * *

 

When they arrived back at the camp Lafayette was pacing in the tent they shared. The worried lines on his forehead disappeared the instant they stepped into the candlelight, and he greeted them both with kisses on each cheek in the French fashion, as though they had not seen each other in days. “I was about to call a search for you,” he said. “I feared your obituaries would read, ‘Ran into the darkness, never seen again.’ What happened?”

Laurens and Hamilton shared a glance. “We got lost in the woods,” Hamilton said.

Lafayette nodded. He took in Hamilton’s coat, buttoned askew; he took in the dishevelment of Laurens’ usually-neat queue. “Of course,” he said, and then added, under his breath, “about time for it, too.”


End file.
